


A Shoulder (To Cry On)

by whatidealreality



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatidealreality/pseuds/whatidealreality
Summary: Prompts: Unexpected hug, old letters





	A Shoulder (To Cry On)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amitye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amitye/gifts).



Natasha hadn’t been seen in public for nearly a week. The rumors flowed as easily as the alcohol, mouth-to-ear whispers of the abduction attempt. Sonya often spent her time by Natasha’s side, holding her hand, murmuring to her softly, singing, anything she could to attempt to nurse her cousin back to health. Any attempt to get some semblance of the warm smiles and bright personality she had so dearly loved from the younger girl.

But nothing. There wasn’t anything from the girl, not often, not ever. Blank stares, bottom lip trembling as Natasha stared into space, whispered cries of _that_ wretched man’s name. Sonya loved Natasha dearly, she did, truly. But she was frustrated, so damn frustrated, with her cousin, every attempt to bring her back to the present pushed away, Natasha, pushing her away.

So she left.

It had taken very little to convince Marya Dmitrievna to allow her to walk alone- Sonya had always been the sensible one, the honest one, and Marya had let Sonya go when the tears had threatened to spill from the gentle brown eyes directed at her pleadingly. “Go,” Marya said quietly, watching Sonya, understanding. Sonya blamed herself for the mess.

“Thank you.” Sonya replied in the same quiet voice, practically fleeing the room to grab her cloak and hurry into the cool Moscow morning, wandering, walking nowhere and anywhere all at once, searching desperately for a respite from the mental war waging constantly at the forefront of her mind.

“Sofia?” Sonya froze at the familiar voice. The voice she knew she’d heard several weeks before, whispered, panicked, “Anatole, come back, _Anatole_!” She turned, slowly, not quite making eye contact with the man. The man. How else was she to call him, with their pasts, with the knowledge of what he had done to her, to everything she had wanted in her life.

“Monsieur Dolokhov,” Sonya replied, cold, as emotionally distant as she could manage to make her voice. Dolokhov seemed to regard her with something akin to sympathy.

“Sofia- I wish to speak with you.”

“Is that not what you are doing?” She was almost surprised at how steely her voice remained. Dolokhov flinched a little, eyes once colder now warm and gentle, softer. Age had treated the soldier well, as had maturity, and Sonya had to force herself to shake the hint of warmth in her cheeks away, directing her thoughts away from exactly how handsome Dolokhov was.

“I- want to apologize.” Dolokhov continued after a long pause, a long breath. “For my part in the- occurrences of last week.” She stared at him, surprise evident, as she took in his apology, which sounded _so damn genuine_ , but she knew him, knew the man had not one ounce of warmth in his blood, had no care for anyone but himself. It was why she had turned him down years before.

Before she could say anything, though, Dolokhov had stepped forwards. Sonya hadn’t a chance to react before she was aware of the arms around her, of Dolokhov holding her gently, and everything she had been holding in came bursting from the dam she had tried to build. She buried her face against the collar of his jacket and tried her best to muffle the soft sobs.

“It will be alright, Sofia,” Dolokhov whispered to her, though she could barely hear him, pressed as she was against him. The world around them seemed to disappear as Sonya felt a feeling she couldn’t place, an odd warmth in her chest, an ache.

“I- Thank you, Monsieur.” Sonya said once she had finally pulled herself together enough to handle speaking. Dolokhov seemed to smile, brushing a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“Please, Sofia. I have told you before, my name is Fyodor.” He murmured to her. “Regardless of what has happened between us, I would ask you call me my name.”

“Fyodor,” Sonya tested the name gently, before nodding. “Please- No one has called me Sofia save for you. Sonya.”

“Sonya.” Dolokhov- Fyodor- confirmed with an easy smile, glancing around before he offered her his arm. “Allow me to accompany you?”

“I’m afraid I’m not going anywhere specific.” Sonya blushed at the admission, at her lack of planning, at her desperation and emotional turmoil.

“Then allow me to accompany you nowhere specific.” Fyodor said, and Sonya hid a smile at the gentle teasing, the attempt to get her to smile, too obvious for it to not have been purposeful.

She took his arm, let him direct her down the street. It was every distraction she needed, everything that she had needed in getting out of the house and away from the toxicity of the situation.

They spent far more time than Sonya cared to admit together, over the next few weeks, as Natasha recovered and Moscow forgot the attempted abduction. Marya Dmitrievna knew, she had to know, who Sonya spent her time with, when she left for walks every morning, or accompanied Count Bezukhov and his wife to operas, the married couple barely acknowledging the other’s existence.

Sonya would break away from them, nearly immediately, meet Fyodor towards the side of the room, and spend nearly the entire night by his side, speaking to him softly. She had not smiled nearly as much as she did around him in years.

Fyodor had grown up, as had she. Fyodor was gentle, to her, sweet, and would not refrain from teasing her, drawing smiles and soft laughs when he could. And the triumphant look on his face every time he did was endearing.

Sonya wasn’t afraid, though, not nearly so frightened as she had been when she first met him. Nikolay’s letters had not been constant, and the terms of endearment had all but ceased. Her anxieties from his leaving returned, barely, but just enough.

“Read it to me again?” Fyodor looked at her from his desk, brow furrowed as he watched her pace, by the window in his study, letter open in her hands.

“Sonya, I must confess that my affections for you have lessened as my time has been away at war.” Sonya read from the paper, tone no less scathing than the first time she’d read it.

“Tell him he is welcome to break off the engagement, should he so wish.” Fyodor suggested, sitting back in his chair, watching her with an unreadable expression.

“I can’t-” Sonya started before turning, startled, as a realization hit her and she looked at the man before her critically. Fyodor’s smile was easy, as he met her gaze. “Why?” She asked suspiciously.

Fyodor just raised his arms in a ‘who knows,’ gesture, letting her pull what she wanted from that reply. Still regarding him suspiciously, Sonya crossed the room and nudged his chair sideways so she could use his desk to write a quick reply to Nikolay.

“Read it to me.” Fyodor said, straining in an attempt to read the letter over her shoulder.

“Nikolay, my time in the city has been educating, if nothing more, on how our society works outside of the rural shell Papa created for us at the estate. With Natasha’s engagement with Prince Andrey broken, I would not be upset if you chose to listen to your mother and cease our affections for one another, to search for a wife better suited for the reputations of our family. Yours, Sonya.” Sonya murmured as she wrote it, missing the small triumphant look on Fyodor’s face as he laughed softly.

“You are too kind to a man who has just told you he does not love you.”

“You are choosing to spend your time with a woman who has told you she will not marry you.” Sonya retorted, drawing a startled laugh from Fyodor. She turned her head to look at him, and he caught sight of the flicker of amusement in her eyes, the slight tilt of the corners of her mouth, as she smiled at him.

“Your point has been made. Write your letter.” He replied, the smile never leaving his face as he sat back, letting her use him to keep her balance as she carefully finished the letter and pressed a seal to the wax- his seal, though neither of them pointed it out to the other, both noticing.

Once the letter was sealed, Fyodor sent the letter away with a servant, sitting back to watch Sonya as she stood up tall, and began to pace again. “You’ll wear yourself out.” He commented, crossing his legs.

“Is that not the point?” Sonya replied dryly, pausing to look out the window, regarding the street below them before she immediately swept back into pacing. She was hardly paying attention, and missed Fyodor’s moving until he stood in front of her, catching her around the waist and holding her against him.

“Sonya, darling,” Fyodor said softly, tilting his head to meet her eyes. “What is on your mind, what is causing you this worry?”

“I’m not young, Fyodor.” Sonya said, voice softer, vulnerable. “What man would have me, at my age? Nikolay was my-“

“Sonya, were I not certain you would deny me, I would ask you again.” He cut her off in the same quiet voice, watching her as she reacted, pausing, staring up at him with wide brown eyes, almost… hopeful.

“Truly?” She asked, barely above a whisper. Fyodor nodded.

“Fedya-“ Sonya took a breath. “Fedya, ask me. Ask me to be yours.” Fedya inhaled sharply, shifting, catching her hands in his, raising her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

“No. It wouldn’t be proper, Sonya. Allow me to court you, properly. Come six months, should you still wish me to marry me, Sonya, then I will ask you to be mine.”

Sonya reluctantly nodded. She understood, but it still did not save her from Marya Dmitrievna’s disappointed face when she returned and informed the woman of the broken engagement between herself and Nikolay.

As per Fedya’s promise, though, he showed up regularly after that, no more excuses for Sonya to make as he took her out, to operas, simply on walks, to spend time together.

Sonya had never been happier, were she honest with herself. Nikolay had never made her smile nearly as much as Fedya did. There was no worry for the family, with Fedya, no worry to make money to save the family name, no pressure to please his parents. Simply Fedya and Sonya, and no one else.

It caught her off guard, six months later, when Fedya didn’t pull her out of Marya Dmitrievna’s like she’d expected, as she’d come to expect, but rather waited for the matriarch herself, meeting the women in the parlor. Natasha joined them, still unwell but with a healthier flush to her cheeks, a hint of smile, of happiness back in her eyes, and a mouthed, “I’ll tell you after,” to Sonya when the older girl noticed and narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

“Marya,” Fedya began slowly, pausing before he began to speak again. “I’ve a letter from Count Rostov I would ask you to read, before I continue.” He passed the letter, allowing the woman to read it. Marya’s lips pursed but she looked up at Fedya and nodded, stepping aside, a dramatic tilt of her head showing Sonya to step forwards. So she did, looking between the both of them in confusion.

“Sonya, my darling,” Fedya smiled at her, taking her hands in his, again, and Sonya’s eyes widened as she realized what exactly was happening.

“Fedya,” she started before she paused, staring at him.

“Let me speak?” He said, a soft look directed at her before he spoke again, waiting for her to acknowledge and agree to let him speak. “I have loved you for years, my darling, and I would love you for my life should you allow me to do so.”

“Fedya, of course.” Sonya cut him off before he could continue to ramble, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips, sweet and short, smiling warmly at him. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at @onlytohisintimates


End file.
